“Now, mother,” interrupted the husband, “that ain't like you. We've crossed plenty Indian reservations this trip already.”
“I don't want to go round,” the little girl said. “Father, don't make me go round.”
Mart, the boy, with a loose hook of hair hanging down to his eyes from his hat, did not trouble to speak. He had been disappointed in the westward journey to find all the Indians peaceful. He knew which way he should go now, and he went to the wagon to look once again down the clean barrel of his rifle.
“Why, Nancy, you don't like Indians?” said her mother.
“Yes, I do. I like chiefs.”
Mrs. Clallam looked across the river. “It was so strange, John, the way they acted. It seems to get stranger, thinking about it.”
“They didn't see us. They didn't have a notion—”
“But if we're going right over?”
“We're not going over there, Liza. That quick water's the Mahkin Rapids, and our ferry's clear down below from this place.”
“What could they have been after, do you think?”